Lord of the Rings: The Long Way Home
by Hawki
Summary: Oneshot: It was in the east of Arda where the race of Men arose with the coming of the sun. It was in the east of Arda where they might come home...if not for thousands of years of mistrust between their peoples.


**The Long Way Home**

In some ways, the city of Xian reminded Faramir of Minas Tirith.

It lacked the seven levels, but in many ways, it served the same function, and did so by imitating its form. Two walls existed for the city, one for the outer city, the other for the inner, over which rose a tower that pointed towards the sun. Ballista lined the outer wall, and though he could not see them, his spies had informed him that catapults were located on the inner wall, capable of lobbing boulders all the way over the city towards any attacking army. Xian was protected by walls to its west, north, and south, while to the east lay the Sea of Rhûn, which would be able to supply the city's people with a constant source of fish in the event of a siege, not to mention peace time. Xian, like Minas Tirth, was a fortress that acted as a hub in this part of the East. Like Minas Tirth, Xian would not be able to be taken by siege unless the attacker was willing to expend an overwhelming number to take it. Like Minas Tirth, Xian might soon become the site of a battle that would drench the grass in the blood of Men.

He hoped it wouldn't come to that. But he had spent most of his life knowing the touch of disappointment. And now, riding towards the gates of the city, clad in leather armour and accompanied by a retinue of knights, that sense of disappointment remained. So white flag from the walls of Xian. No horn heralding the coming of the Steward of Gondor, Warden of Ithilien, Head Ranger, and Lord Commander of the Knights of Gondor. No greeting for the Men of the West by their eastern kin. No. Just the wall. The giant wooden doors before them. The crossbowmen and halberdiers that manned the walls of the Jewel of the East, glaring at the newcomers from behind their helms. Even from down here, Faramir could see the hatred in their eyes.

"How many do you think?"

He glanced at Sir Berethor. "What?"

"How many?" the knight asked, nodding at the crossbowmen.

"Enough that if they so wished, they could give us but a single volley and kill us all where we stand?"

In spite of the situation, Berethor smirked. "Well, if you're not wearing full plate armour…"

"If all goes to plan, I will be sitting and dining with the lord of this city. I wish that experience to be comfortable."

"And if you never make it to the tower?"

"Then I shall be dead, and beyond such worries."

A groan sounded from the gates as they opened outward.

"But fear not," Faramir said. "It appears that the Men of the East are willing to break bread with us."

Berethor said nothing. Nor did any of the knights, and their horses remained silent. All that remained was the sound of the gates opening, and the banner of Gondor flapping in the wind. It was a warm breeze, even if they were in the last days of winter. Come the spring…Faramir fought the urge to wince. Spring was the season of new life, where flowers bloomed and babes were born. It was also the season where armies marched to war. Armies such as those of King Elessar, who had marched east to subdue the Easterlings that refused to make peace with the West. Easterlings like those of Xian, and Lord Shan.

The man that walked out to meet him, accompanied by an honour guard, wasn't Lord Shan.

"You," the man said, his accent thick, his words blunt, as he spoke in Westron. "Faramir?"

Faramir nodded. "Here to see the lord of this city."

"You. Only," the herald said, gesturing towards Faramir. "Horsemen. Outside walls."

Berethor laughed. "You take us for fools, Easterling?"

"Yes. But not relevant." He nodded at Faramir again. "Lord awaits you. Come or no?"

"I shall," Faramir said, dismounting.

"My lord-"

"Have faith Berethor," the steward said as he dismounted his horse. "One of us has to."

Berethor said nothing. As he walked up to the herald, the man before him said nothing as well. Unlike the honour guard, his head was unencumbered by helm. He was slightly shorter than Faramir. His skin darker. His eyes narrow. He was, for now, his enemy. But seeing the face of the enemy, Faramir beheld no enemy, but a man. The bridge between war and peace.

"Come," the herald said. "Follow."

Faramir did so.

The doors behind him closed with a thud.

##

The walk to the tower was long. And Faramir wasted no time in taking stock of the city.

For years he had fought in the forests of Ithilien. He'd quickly learnt how to count an enemy's number. Knew when and how to hit them to best effect. If war came to Xian, it would be very different from the battles he'd fought as a ranger. Still, he took stock of what he could – how many men. How many horses. How many catapults. In the wars of this world, numbers didn't always carry the day – a dwarf might be outnumbered by ten goblins, and still emerge triumphant if his armour held. Still, the Easterlings were of his race, and he had no reason to underestimate their prowess. If it came to battle (and if he wasn't taken as hostage), these numbers would be valuable information to the king.

Yet he couldn't help but notice the other things. The merchants who plied their wares. The women who talked. The children who played. Those of long beards who sat and smoked. The infants who cried. It wasn't home – not the people, not the language, not the culture. But it was similar. Eerily similar. Boromir had laughed when he had once confided that he preferred to slay the spawn of Morgoth rather than his fellow Man. To his father, he had not confided at all – the enemies of Gondor were just that, enemies, and too many to number. And yet, here, he was reminded of the truth – in war, people died, and the innocent would perish alongside the guilty. Reminded that if he failed to find a peace here, the innocent and guilty alike would drown in blood.

He wondered if the people knew it. If the guards who glared at him from behind their helms knew it. Wondered what the children thought as they stared at him, before their mothers took them away. Peace had come to Rhûn through the downfall of the Dark Lord. How the people thought about that, he couldn't say.

It took longer than he cared for to reach the door to the tower – exactly what the tower was called, he wasn't sure – Tower of the Sun was the most common translation provided to him, but the interpreters stressed that this wasn't a precise translation – it was no Minas Anor. Certainly it was not white, but rather a shade of red – stone and wood together. There was an elegance to it, but not sturdiness. Of course, an army had to get here first. Past two walls, and a city full of defenders.

The doors opened and the herald gestured. Faramir walked through, his eyes wide, and not only because of the comparative gloom (and to his relief, cool – it was hot in the East). It was beautiful. Or at least the murals on the walls were – men on horses. Men fighting dragons. Swans and herons forming shapes within shapes. Art that no spawn of Sauron would ever create. Even Men who fell under the Shadow did not have their desire to create removed.

The statues were less beautiful. The statues spread around the base of a tower, each showing a man in armour, each with an inscription at its base that he couldn't read. Kings, heroes, generals? He couldn't say. But these were men who had led people into battle against Gondor. Who had killed his people. For all the beauty around him, he could not forget that the Easterlings had served the Dark Lord, and if not for the slimmest of margins, he would not be standing on this earth. And nor would the country he'd protected.

"Do they please you Gondorian?"

Faramir found the source of the voice – a man clad in chainmail, along with a deep red cloak and a sheathed sword. He was flanked by four women clad in white. One bearing a tray, one a table, the other two a chair each.

"Lord Shen?" Faramir asked.

"Yes." The lord smiled. "There's fifty levels up to my quarters, and I thought I'd spare you the trip."

"That is very…um…"

"Something you wish to say?"

"Your Westron. It's excellent."

Shen shrugged. "It is always good to know the tongue of your enemy."

"We don't have to be enemies."

"Do we not? Well, we'll get to that." He looked at the herald. "Wèi wǒmen tígōng shíwù hé yǐnliào."

Faramir understood not Shen's words. He watched as the table and chairs were set up, along with the tray – two cups of a green liquid, each flanked by a plate of food he didn't recognise.

"Sit," Shen said. "Whatever we discuss, I imagine you'll be parched in this heat."

Faramir took a seat as did the lord – for the first time, he took a good look at him.

He wasn't too different from the herald, at least superficially. Same skin. Same eyes. Still, there was a confidence among Shen – the type of confidence that true leaders could radiate. A confidence in himself, and in his people. Faramir knew that he was seeing the side of Lord Shen that served his people in peace. No doubt there was the side that would serve them in war as well. Having served King Elessar for years, Faramir had seen both of the man's sides.

"Drink," Shen said. He picked up his cup, while Faramir looked at his. There was no handle, but Shen was using both his hands to sip from the rim.

"Afraid?" Shen asked.

Faramir frowned. "How do I know it's not poisoned?"

"Poisoned," Shen snorted, putting his cup down. "Poison is the weapon of women. If I wished you dead, I would use my own sword."

"Women provided me with this drink."

Shen rose an eyebrow before smirking. "Quite right." He leant forward and took a sip from Faramir's cup. "There. If you are to die, you shall have my company at the hereafter."

Faramir paused before taking a sip. It was bitter, but still, pleasant to his tongue. If nothing else, it was a taste he hadn't had before.

"Do you like your tea?" Shen asked.

Faramir nodded, taking another sip. "Yes. Quite."

"Hmm." Shen leant back in his chair. "Of course, for all you know, the tea's poisoned, and I've taken a remedy that will spare me its effects."

Faramir paused, the cup in his hands.

"Or I'm having a joke at your expense." Shen clapped his hands. "Líkāi women."

The women, the herald, and the soldiers that accompanied him filed out. In less than a minute, Faramir found himself alone, with only the lord of Xian to keep him company. He took another sip of the tea, finishing it.

"I'd offer you more, but I doubt you'll be here that long," Shen said.

"Is that a threat?"

"No, only a fact." Shen took a sip of his own cup, likewise finishing it. "I know why you're here, Steward of Gondor. I know what you've come to say, and what you wish me do."

"And yet you see me regardless," Faramir said.

Shen shrugged. "Very soon, the armies of your king will march on Xian. You're here to get me to open my gates, to bend the knee to a man of the sunken kingdom. You wish me to lick his boots as do my kin."

"Rhûn has its freedom," Faramir said. "King Elessar only desires peace."

"Peace," Shen said. "We all desire peace. But peace on whose terms?" He took a bite from his plate – some kind of vegetables and meat wrapped in a flat white substance. Faramir took a bite of his – it was good. Shen laughed.

"What?" Faramir asked.

"Ever the good dog," he said. "You drink when I do, you eat when I do." He took another bite. "Do you know that we eat dogs here?"

Faramir paused, the food in his hands.

"Does it bother you to know it might be dog?" Shen asked. "If I had not told you, would you find the meat any less delicious?"

Faramir said nothing.

"It isn't dog," Shen said, before getting to his feet. "But come. I wish to show you something."

Faramir got to his feet as well, frowning. "We're going up to the fiftieth floor?"

"No, only the twenty-fifth. I shall spare you that much at least."

##

The twenty-fifth floor led to a balcony over which lay the Sea of Rhûn.

Faramir had seen the ocean before, but not the sea. Or, rather, he had never seen an inland body of water this big. He couldn't even see the other side. But he could see boats, big and small. Some of them were even warships by the looks of it. Clearly Shen knew that he needed to protect Xian's eastern side as well, and that meant a good navy.

"I like to come here to see the sun rise," Shen said. "It gets cold at the top, and I find this is a good midway point." He looked at Faramir. "Seven levels are your city, no? Does it get cold there as well?"

"I can't say," Faramir said. "Most of my days I spend in Ithilien, beneath the trees."

"Indeed." Shen paused, and Faramir saw he was searching for words. There was a look in his eyes that he recognised – despair. Concern. The same look Faramir had for years, until the return of the king and the rebirth of the realm. He waited for the lord to speak – what better way to know a man's mind than his fears.

"Tell me," Shen asked eventually. "How does it feel to be home?"

Faramir blinked. "Home?"

"Home," Shen said. He gestured towards the sea. "Perhaps you know not the tales of the origin of Men. How we awoke with the coming of the sun, first blinking at its magnificence from the eastern shore of this sea."

"I know the story," Faramir said. "And I know how Men travelled west, to escape the darkness of Morgoth."

"Darkness," Shen said. "Is that how you perceive us? Living in darkness?"

"I know that for three ages this world has been ravaged by Morgoth and his deadliest servants. I know that you have marched side by side with orcs and worse."

"And you alongside elves," Shen said. "To us, your lands are in darkness."

Faramir frowned. "Are these your words, or those of Sauron's?"

"These are the words of history. A history where your people have killed mine. Your people who destroyed your own land with your vanity, who fight alongside unnatural beings that serve those who seek to dominate us from afar."

"And your people have killed mine," Faramir said. "We've both done a lot of killing. Wouldn't you like to see it end?"

Shen said nothing. Faramir said nothing. Once, he had wondered what lies and threats had been forced on the Men of the South to make them march on his homeland? Now, with Lord Shen, he realized it wasn't that simple. Threats need not be made. Lies could become truths. And millennia of hatred could endure.

He had to hope that it would end. That he could do with words what he could never do with the bow or sword. That he could return to his home beneath the trees without the smell of blood on his hands. Watching Shen sigh, watching the lord lean out on the balcony, looking ever to the east, he could only hope that Shen shared that hope as well.

"Tell me," Shen said eventually. "Do you know what this tower is called?"

"In our language?" Faramir asked.

Shen nodded.

"It is hard to say. I understand that it's called the Tower of the Dawn."

"In a sense," Shen said, before looking at Faramir. "In our language, it is called Yǒnghéng Yàiyáng Zhī Tǎ. A tower of the dawn, yes, but more. We…" He put a hand to his chin before gesturing upward. "The sun is special to us. We worship it, give praise to it. There are those among us who would die before leaving its light."

"The sun shines over all of Middle-earth."

"As do the moon and stars. But it is your elf-friends that claim to be the closest to these things."

A silence lingered between the two men. From here, Faramir couldn't make out the sound of the waves lapping on the shore, but he could imagine it. Imagine the words of the fishermen who simply wanted to live. Of the birds that flew above. How might those sounds change if Xian refused to make peace?

He could imagine it quite well. But he didn't imagine it for long as he saw Lord Shen sigh, before putting a hand on Faramir's shoulder.

"I can see that you are a good man, Steward of Gondor," Shen said. "If more were like you, the world might be a happier place."

"And it might yet be," Faramir said. "You…you don't have to fight."

"But I do," Shen said. "For the sake of my fathers, and the sun willing, my suns, if I may yet live to father them."

"And you may still live."

"Perhaps. But while I have decided not to stick you head on a pike as warning for your people, I have not changed my mind. Xian will not bow to Gondor or its king. If you want this city, you'll have to take it."

"This…this is…"

"This is my decision, and the decision of every lord, noble, and priest here," Shen said. "You know the truth as well as I do – you can't starve us out. So only through blood will Xian be taken." He paused – long enough for Faramir to see the burden upon him, short enough to see his resolve bury it. "Now go. The sun is heading westward, and spring is nearly upon us. Both of us have preparations to make."

Faramir didn't say anything. It wasn't that he didn't want to, but rather, the knowledge that he could say nothing to dissuade the man before him. He'd reached this point before with other Easterlings. But those who had refused had been subdued with little effort. Xian though…taking this city would cost the lives of thousands on both sides.

"I shall pass on your decision," Faramir said eventually. "And that you provided a most courteous hospitality."

Shen snorted. "You'll be attacking this city within a month, and you seek to bring tales of our hospitality? You think your soldiers will spare us for our tea?"

"I think…hope…that when this is over, we may all drink tea together."

"Then that is your hope alone," Shen said. This time, there was no burden, only resolve. The Lord of Xian's eyes locked with his – two eyes, two peoples, two truths. "Know this, son of Gondor. We shall fight you. To the last drop of blood, we shall fight you."

"I know," Faramir whispered.

And with that, the Steward of Gondor turned and departed, heading back into the Tower of the Dawn.

Out of the light of the sun, and into the darkness he knew was coming for them all.


End file.
